


boy-god

by melodiousmadrigals



Series: supermom [3]
Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, F/M, Fix-it (cont), Fluff, Slice of Life, Steve Is Alive, wondertrev
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-01-24 11:34:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21337576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melodiousmadrigals/pseuds/melodiousmadrigals
Summary: Steve is about to put a bullet into some highly-explosive canisters of gas, and suddenly a dude in red shows up and says he can see Diana again. Obviously he's going to accept.or: Steve's POV to being dumped a hundred years in the future
Relationships: Diana (Wonder Woman)/Steve Trevor
Series: supermom [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1477556
Comments: 15
Kudos: 274





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> no beta we die valiantly
> 
> do these vignettes tell a cohesive tale? probably not. have i stuck them together anyways? yep.

Steve's day is not what you would call ideal, but war never is. 

He's got ice running through his veins, and he's never been so scared in his entire life, not even when he stole Maru's book from the Germans and escaped in a plane low on fuel, but there's also a determination that settles over the fear, keeping him level-headed and in check. 

He is going to die tonight, right now, in the space between this hour and the next one. 

He's going to make sure that millions of people in London, women and children, and Etta and the grocer around the block from his apartment and the clerk at Twillings, don't die a horrible death the way the people in Veld did. 

He's going to die, but it's going to be worth something. 

He wishes he didn't have to say goodbye to Diana, not like that. He wishes they had more time. He wishes he'd savored this morning more, when he woke up warm and comfortable and feeling hope for the first time since the war began. And oh, how he _ wishes _ that she'd heard him when he told her he loved her. 

But the course of his life is linear, and those moments have passed now, solidly in the before, while he is in the after. The _ end_. His remaining moments will tread a linear line too, as his feet carry him to the airplane, as the airplane will carry him up and away. 

There's so little time, now.

There's no time left for wishing, so he settles on hoping. 

He hopes it means something to Diana. He hopes she'll realize that people aren't good, but they aren't bad either. That humanity is worth it. That maybe it's not a question of deserving, because none of them deserve her, not really. 

His time is up now. He's taken out the auxiliary man, makes his way through the gas tanks in the hold. There's just the pilot left. The plane is climbing high, gaining altitude so that it can get to London, but it's probably high enough by now that the gas could be dispersed without harming anyone. 

The remainder of his life can be counted in heartbeats, maybe just a couple hundred. 

The pilot tries to resist, but Steve's got conviction, and desperation, and _ love _ on his side. It's a foregone conclusion that he'll win, and he does. 

It's as he turns to deposit the man's unconscious body that he sees a new figure, dressed in red with a light vortex behind him. For a moment, Steve thinks he's hallucinating. But he doesn't have the luxury of time to figure it out. 

“Who the hell are you, and how the hell did you get here?" he yells over the thrum of the engine. 

The figure, which Steve now recognizes as that of a young man, a boy really, shifts uncomfortably. Steve gets the inexplicable impression that he's the one controlling the light vortex behind him. Any other day of his entire life, Steve might not have believed it, but he's seen what Diana can do, and now he's seen what Ares can do, too. Now he just needs to decide how much of a threat this being poses.

“I'm a friend of Diana’s,” the boy shouts back.

Well. That would be all well and good, except that Diana grew up on an island of women, and he's met everyone she's been introduced to here. He can't help but be suspicious, but it suddenly occurs to him that maybe this is another of the gods. Hermes or Apollo, maybe, or someone minor who wasn't caught up in the battle thousands of years ago. 

“Look,” the boy continues quickly. “I can help. But I have to know: do you love her?” 

Does he love her? What kind of question is that? “More than anything,” Steve says, without hesitation. 

“And what would you be willing to do to see her again?” 

“Anything,” Steve breathes, truthfully, although he knows that isn't in the cards for him. “But you have to get out of my way. Neither of us are gonna make it anywhere. I have to disperse this gas. I have to do this, for her.”

“I know,” says the boy, but how could he know? “And I need you to trust me.” 

Trust isn't a word high on Steve's vocabulary. He's not particularly good at it, especially not with strangers. His instincts are good, and always have been, but in a war like this one, it's not enough. He can't afford to trust someone just because his instincts don't immediately warn him off. 

Now, however, he has no choice. 

He nods. 

He'll try anything, so long as he can still disperse the gas. 

"Okay, great," the boy exhales. "You need to tell me when you're ready to explode the gas, because this whole thing needs to be perfectly timed." 

Steve looks back at the dash of the plane. "We're high enough. I can shoot the canisters, it'll cause the explosion, and the gas burns up." 

"Okay, okay, cool. I need you to get in position standing right in front of me." 

Steve does so. 

"Take your shot." 

One heartbeat. Two. Steve exhales. Pulls the trigger. 

(It happens like this, although Steve doesn't have the requisite skills to process the entire sequence: the weapon discharges, and the bullet flies true, directly into the targeted canister. The result is immediate, and the gas explodes, sending off a chain reaction as the rest of the canisters start blowing up. The flames and concussive wave move quickly, rippling out and reaching for the two men standing aft of the cockpit, but the boy is quicker than the blast ever could be. Satisfied that the deed is done, the boy grabs Steve and pulls him into the vortex, which disappears just as the explosion's effects lick over it, gone as if it never existed. The plane explodes in the sky, like a malevolent firework, and below there is an anguished scream.) 

Between one blink and the next, Steve has been pulled into a swirling mess of color and light, and it shocks his senses. They are no longer in the airplane, Steve thinks, because as confusing as this is, it doesn't feel like death, and death was the certain outcome of remaining in the plane. 

He is startled to find that bits of his life are playing out around him, snippets of memories old and new and long forgotten, all tangled together and warped. His head hurts, and then he feels the pressure of the boys hand on his arm, pulling him away, through twists and turns. They are going fast, so fast, faster than Steve's ever gone in his life, and he sees eddies of light playing out all sorts of things that don't seem possible or real. Steve reaches out to touch one, and he sees a red haired man gesticulating as he intones _ we choose to go to the moon! _ Steve feels nauseated, head spinning with the possible and impossible. Without knowing how, he's positive that he's just touched time itself. 

The passage of time doesn't really exist where he is; he's there until suddenly he's not. 

It's dark, and cool, and he's outside of an undamaged building. It's all the information he can gather before he promptly passes out. 

When he opens his eyes next, he's inside, being supported by the boy, and in front of him—

In front of him is Diana, eyes wide. 

He blinks, just to make sure. 

"Angel?" he whispers. He can't quite believe that this boy-god did it. 

"Steve," she says, strangled, and he's never heard anything more beautiful in his life. 

Reality is still phasing in and out, and he thinks he hears more talking, but he doesn't understand it. Vaguely, he wonders if it's a language he doesn't speak or if he's just so spaced out that everything sounds like unintelligible background noise. 

He feels like he's been concussed or drugged or maybe both. 

He hears Diana's voice, calling after the boy-god. She says _ Barry_, and Steve is so utterly confused, because he read the _ Iliad _ and the _ Odyssey _and he doesn't remember that being the name of any Greek god or demigod. 

And suddenly her face is in his field of vision again. She touches his cheek softly, says "Steve," again, and that's when he fully phases out of reality. 

* * *

When he wakes up the next time, it's in an airy room filled with soft light. He's on the most comfortable bed ever, and when he shifts slightly, his eyes fall on Diana, reading in an armchair next to the bed. 

If he's dead, this is a pretty good afterlife. If he's not—well, even better. 

He wants to say something, but for a few moments he just drinks in the sight of her, utterly mesmerized. 

_ She's here. So is he. _He can't quite believe it. 

"Good morning," he croaks finally, his voice hoarse from disuse and probably the ever-present battlefield smoke. 

She startles, snapping her book shut and stiffening, before focusing in on Steve and letting the tension drain from her body. 

"You're awake. How are you feeling?"

"A bit like I was hit by a tank, honestly." 

Diana scrunches her nose. "I certainly know that feeling." 

Steve thinks maybe she isn't exaggerating like he was. Thinking about tanks makes him think about the war, about the airfield. 

"Diana," Steve says urgently, sitting up as soon as the thought crosses his mind, "I'm sorry I didn't believe you sooner, about Ares."

A number of emotions flit across her face. "I made my peace with that long ago," says Diana evenly. "It did not take long in the world of men to understand why you were skeptical."

"It doesn't matter," Steve presses, trying to convey everything that welled up on the airstrip. "I should have believed _ you_." 

"Thank you," she says, and even though he's not used to seeing it, he recognizes tenderness in her eyes. "You are forgiven." 

Steve thinks about the awful things he's done—because he had to, because it seemed right, because it was just the way things were done and he didn't bother to question it. "I'm not sure I deserve that." 

"A very long time ago, I was told that maybe it should not be a question of _ deserving_, and that's something I have carried with me every day since."

Steve is grateful—awed, even—that she took his words to heart, but it's overshadowed by Steve's realization that she keeps talking like a lot of time has passed, despite the fact that he was on that airplane yesterday. It is a testament to the truly insane things Steve has seen in the past few weeks that he barely flinches outwardly. Perhaps what he saw last night really _ was _ time, the boy-god _ did _ take him to another month when he was helping him escape the plane. 

"Just how long has it been for you?" Steve asks carefully, trying to keep his voice neutral. She seems to have her life completely set up; he takes comfort in the fact that Etta probably helped her arrange things. (He hopes they can see Etta soon.)

"He did not tell you," Diana says, more to herself than him. Steve thinks she means the boy-god, but he can't be sure. 

"Diana—"

"Maybe now is not the best time—" Diana starts to say, and it makes him nervous the way this seemingly unflappable woman before him is suddenly more awkward than he's ever seen her. 

"Please, Diana, whatever it is, just tell me." 

Diana exhales, braces herself. "Steve, it has been more than a hundred years." 

***

Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't that. A couple months, a couple years. But a century? A full century? It doesn’t feel real. It's unfathomable, especially because she looks—

"Exactly the same, you look exactly the same."

It is a wry smile—unhappy, even—that crosses Diana's face. "By human standards, I am immortal."

Funnily enough, this is what snaps him out of his internal spiral. He closes his eyes. Calculates the number of generations in a century. Can't imagine anything worse, really, not after what he saw in the war. "So you've had to watch us all die."

"None of it was quite so hard as your death."

That's not a _ no. _ "We must seem like ants to you. Ephemeral."

"You are miracles, even when you are at your worst." 

"Have we gotten any better? In a hundred years, have we gotten better?" 

Diana sighs again. "In truth? Not really. The world has changed so very much, but humans have not." 

"Plus ça change…" says Steve, and it elicits a real smile. (She's exquisite when she smiles.) 

"We still have that expression," she says, but her face quickly darkens. "The world is not the one you left. It is almost unrecognizable. I am sorry that this was not properly explained to you before you were brought here." 

How can she not know? It could be Mars, or Ancient Rome, or a thousand years from now, and he'd willingly go if that was where she was. 

"Diana, I meant every single word that I said to you on the airstrip. Maybe it isn't fair to say to you when it's been—when it's been a hundred years for you, but I love you. I love you, and I'm glad I'm here, even if I have to re-learn how people do everything these days." 

Diana's eyes are shining with unshed tears. "I do not know how I got so lucky as to have you here, after so long, but I am very grateful, and I love you, too. More than you possibly could know." 

He leans in, slow enough that she could pull away if she wants to, carefully searching her eyes. There is a brief moment when their lips touch where things slot into alignment for Steve: this, right here, is what the poets talk about. Why people cross oceans and continents, and in his case, centuries. And then he's lost in the feeling so much so that all the analysis and pretty thoughts fly out the window. 

* * *

Waking up in the 21st century isn't exactly a walk in the park, but at least mustard gas is no longer among his daily problems. 

Clothing, however, _ is_. 

Life sure is providing him a heavy dose of irony. 

They go shopping on his second day there, because he can't keep wearing the German uniform, even though it was perfectly adequate for a day in which they didn't leave the apartment at all, talking and eating and trying to bring Steve up to speed on the world he's just walked into. (And, er, also the fact that it spent a not-unsizable chunk of time on the floor.) It's overwhelming, to say the least.

Was this how Diana felt when the roles were reversed? All the clothes are ridiculous. Everything is horribly improper. Underclothes are masquerading as outerwear, now called “t-shirts” and “shorts”, and it’s no longer fashionable to wear hats. Steve was never very fashion-forward or a follow-the-rules kind of guy, but he still feels exposed in some of the clothes Diana tells him are full outfits. (Women’s clothing has, perhaps, changed even more drastically, but the notable point there is that Steve doesn’t have to _ wear _ it, so it can do whatever it wants.) Perhaps even more upsetting is the fact that the clothing feels so _ cheap_. The fabric is thin and the stitching is weak, and even if the fabric feels soft, it doesn’t feel substantial. (And Steve is certain that Diana has taken him to buy what equates to nice, well-made clothing in this age. When he saw one of the price tags, he nearly threw up. The € symbol is unfamiliar to him, but the number that follows is half of his _ yearly _ pay.)

“Diana, this is too much,” he protests, when he does a quick calculation of the clothes he’s trying on right now, which put together cost nearly what he earned during the entire war. 

“It is largely inflation, Steve,” she says. “But I have had one hundred years to accrue wealth, and this will not cause me any problems.” 

He huffs. Then, “Is a suit and hat really such an outdated outfit?” 

“The hat, maybe, but the suit is perfectly acceptable. I think you look very handsome.” 

He feels his cheeks redden, just slightly. (It isn’t a secret that she thinks he’s handsome. He knows he is, even. But to hear her say it in public sends a thrill down his spine.) 

“What about this sweater?” she asks, handing him something else. “I think you wore something like this, yes?” 

It’s cable-knit and very thick, and it does remind him of something he owned in 1918, but softer. 

“Diana, you don’t need to recreate my wardrobe from 1918,” he says, mostly a joke. He feels bad that she’s spent so much time on this, while he keeps trying to figure out what will serve his purposes best. It makes him just a little defensive. He feels like he should be wearing modern things. He feels uncomfortable in the modern things. This divide frustrates him, and makes everything just a little worse. 

"But I want you to be comfortable,” she protests. “Just try the sweater, please?” 

“What is it about this sweater?” he grumbles, but he’s got it in his hands and is closing the curtain to try it on. 

Her voice comes softly from just outside as he’s shucking his current shirt, sounding a bit defeated. “I thought that perhaps the right clothes might help you feel more comfortable. I just want to make sure you don't regret being here. There's not really a way for you to go back, the way I could return to my island."

Oh, so this is what's bothering her. Why she's suddenly so serious, why she’s spent so much time searching for perfection in this stupid store. Shopping hasn't been _ fun_, but comparatively, it's not that bad. He rushes to reassure her.

“I might be a little frustrated with some of the changes, but I could never regret being here.” 

“I just want to make sure you always have a choice, moving forward. I am afraid that you were not truly given one, or that you did not understand what the consequence of that choice would be.” 

He opens the curtain to see her, leaning her head against the wall just where the curtain ended. He watches her see him, and smile just a little. 

“It looks nice,” she says, just as softly, as if this is a confession, too. 

“It fits well,” he says. “And it does make me feel a little better. You were right. I just thought if I was dressed in modern clothes, maybe the rest would be a little easier.” 

“Sometimes you need to take a little of the past with you.” 

“We’ll figure it out.” 

“I hope so.” Their faces are so close that they’re almost touching. The slightest shift and he could be kissing her. (It’s appealing, but he’s a bit uncomfortable with showing affection in public.) 

Instead, he says, "Diana, whatever you think, this was my choice. The boy-god asked me what I would be willing to do to see you again, and I told him _ anything_. I didn't lie. This included, even if it’s insane and mind-boggling and a hell of an adjustment."

Steve is on the verge of pouring his heart out—again—but Diana tips her head back in a burst of laughter before he can get there. 

"I'm so sorry!" she exclaims, barely able to get it out. The thought of being cross flashes through his head, but it's not worth it. The stress of the past few weeks needs to go somewhere, and laughing at an inappropriate time is as good as anything else he's got. 

"It's just—" she says finally, trying to control herself. "I am glad you do not regret coming here, and I am so glad you are here with me now, even if shopping is painful. But_ boy-god! _" 

Steve is, quite honestly, confused. "The one who brought me here? I assumed he was one of the Greek gods, like Zeus and Ares and, er, you." 

Diana looks as though she's still suppressing laughter. "His name is Barry, he is very much human and not a boy-god, and he is never, _ ever _ going to stop laughing when he hears that!"

And, well, if he joins her laughing, so be it. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Diana's POV from the first few weeks...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no beta we die valiantly
> 
> I wrote this instead of sleeping and was so hyped to get it posted that it maybe has not been edited as heavily as it should have been. Enjoy at your own peril!

Diana takes an instant liking to Barry, when she first meets him. He's a sweet kid; his heart is in the right place. 

It doesn't entirely surprise her that he's the one that she opens up to, at least more so than the others. Mostly, it's because the poor kid needs to talk, and sometimes it's easier to share when the person you're sharing with has made themselves vulnerable too.

So when he asks her to get coffee, she tells him a bit about Steve, and then listens to him talk about his mom. She does her best to provide him comfort—and realistic comfort, because enough of the world lies that she doesn't need to as well—and he shocks her with his incredibly on-the-nose questions. (The fact that he calls her supermom makes her smile, at least behind closed doors. It's cute.)

Still, she doesn't think much of what _ she _ shared. She does her best to mentor Barry a little, invite him over for dinner whenever they happen to be in the same area, and be someone that he can lean on if he needs it. (That's what a “supermom” would do, right?) 

Despite this, it's still a surprise when he calls her one weekend morning, right after a JL mission. 

“Barry, is everything alright? I just saw you a few days ago.” 

“Yeah, Diana,” he says immediately. “Everything is fine, fine. I'm calling cuz I'm gonna be in Europe tonight and I was hoping I might be able to pop by this evening.” His voice comes through clear, but she can tell he's anxious about something.

It honestly worries her just a little; usually Barry comes right out and says what's wrong. But if he doesn't feel comfortable saying so on the phone, she won't force the issue. 

“You're always welcome, you know that,” she replies instead. “I'll make dinner. Shall we say 8?” At least he'll get a meal out of it.

“That'd be great,” he says, with obvious relief. “See you then.” 

She tries not to think too much about it, but stops at the market on her way home from the Louvre, and picks up plenty of carbs and protein so that he'll stay full a bit longer than his usual meals. 

Eight o’clock comes and goes, and Barry doesn't show up. He's usually early when she invites him to dinner, but since he's late to everything else, she doesn't worry too much. 

And as it happens, she needn't have at all, because at eight-thirteen, she hears a racket on the stairs.

“Barry, is that you? The door's open! You know, for someone who is the fastest man alive, you do not seem to—”

She’s going to entertain some sort of quip about getting places on time, and he’s going to laugh like he always does, but alas, the joke never comes to fruition, because she turns around to greet him properly, and that’s when she sees that he’s holding a man in his arms. Her entire being freezes, because that's not a random man, that looks exactly like—

“What—” she tries to ask, but the man chooses that exact moment to stir. To blink. To say, “Angel?” and it's definitely his voice, even though it's been a century since she heard it. She can't quite believe it.

“_Steve?_” She finally gets out, and it's cracked, full of hope that she can't fully repress and shock too, as her eyes flick between Steve and Barry, who she's just realized is still standing there awkwardly. 

“Surprise?” says Barry, as if he's highly unsure of himself. Well, he's absolutely right. It very much is a surprise. 

“I...I don't understand,” Diana says. “_He's dead, he was dead. Is this a dream? How could this be? How did you find him?” _

Barry may not understand the Greek that Diana has accidentally slipped into, but he deposits Steve on the couch and tries to explain, “It's the, uh, Speed Force. I went back and got him. Made sure he shot the bullet that exploded the gas. Pulled him out of his time as the plane exploded. Brought him back to you. I wanted you to be happy. And, uh, I'm just gonna go now.” 

She's torn between asking him a thousand more questions about how he did this and, alternatively, rushing to Steve, but Barry is gone in a flash, out the door, so the decision is made for her. She has Steve back. 

* * *

The days that follow pass like something between a dream and an absurd, dadaist creation: _ She has Steve back,_ but with the century that has passed, so too have the roles reversed. 

Mixed into the euphoria of having Steve are almost out-of-body experiences like going clothes shopping and explaining the oven and TV and curating a reading list of what Steve has missed. It's surreal in the best possible way.

* * *

It isn't until the beginning of the second week of having Steve back that Diana realizes how much she's missed physical human contact, how integral it is to her everyday experience. 

Steve is a very tactile person compared to most people, at least with her. It's soft and casual: When he passes her in the kitchen, he gently touches the small of her back to anchor himself as he slips by. When he passes her something and their hands touch, his fingers linger a moment. When he gets back from his morning run, he'll hand her a cup of coffee and kiss her cheek. When they sit next to each other on the couch, reading or watching a film, they sit close enough that they're comfortably thigh to thigh and shoulder to shoulder. His arm will sometimes go around her and he'll rub soothingly circles into her bicep, or sometimes it'll feel natural to lean her head against his shoulder. Sometimes, he leans his head against hers. 

It makes her feel warm. Loved. Her people, the Amazons, are a tactile bunch. They spar and hug and touch and dance freely, and it was unusual to go a day—a few hours, even—without some sort of skin to skin contact. But here, Diana finds, she can go months—years, even—without a single touch that isn't sexual or perfunctory-social-greeting in nature. Without comforting, absent-minded platonic touch that has no other agenda than to softly say _ hello, I'm here._ And it's only in having it again that she realizes how much she missed it when it was gone. 

(There are other things she's grateful for, of course. Having someone who understands her past and her identity in a fundamental way, because he was there for it. Having someone who has seen her at her worst, at her most downtrodden and least generous, who loves and believes in her anyways. The decidedly less platonic kisses that consume her. The constant, wry humor. All of these are gifts, but none of them take her by surprise, knock her down in their overwhelming simplicity, the way the absent-minded skin to skin contact does.) 

(And none of this is to say that the whole process is entirely without its kinks. They're still relearning each other—and in some ways, still _ learning _ each other, since they had so little time last time—which is a process. But the inherent gratitude in being _ able _ to relearn and bicker and quarrel is far stronger than any disagreement. They're both good at stepping back and looking at the big picture, like when they realize they both prefer sleeping on the right side of the bed, or when Diana realizes that Steve often leaves the cap off the toothpaste, or when Steve learns the hard way that Diana doesn't return tumblers to the sink until they're all gone from the cabinet. There are only six, but they're scattered across the apartment.) 

Each of these moments is a small gift within the larger one of his presence, and she finds that each one anchors her, keeps her mindful and present in the best way.

* * *

"I am going to the United States tomorrow," says Diana, one evening when they're curled up in bed, fifteen days since Steve was returned. She's been hesitant to leave him, a small part of her worried that this is all a beautiful fever dream that will disappear, and a slightly larger part unwilling let Steve fend for himself just yet. He's a quick learner, but she, better than anyone, knows how difficult it can be. "I should be home by dinner, though." 

Steve leans over and kisses her shoulder. "I accept my mission to handle the stove alone," he jokes. 

"What if you have to use the oven, too?" 

"Too many dials," Steve says with mock seriousness. "I'm just a simple farmboy; I'd never succeed." 

"Perish the thought. I shan't even show you the ice cream machine, then, because that would be adding buttons to the mix, too." 

"You have an ice cream machine?" Steve asks, perking up and dropping his bit. 

"One of my indulgences," Diana admits, rolling onto her side so that they're face to face. 

Steve smiles, and it's already become one of Diana's favorite sights in the world. 

"Then I do solemnly promise to learn buttons next. I'll put them ahead of the touchedscreens." 

Diana has to hold back a laugh. She kisses him instead, just because she can.

"So what's going on in America that requires Princess Diana's attention?" 

"Barry, the boy who brought you back to me. I have been remiss in contacting him. I am going to see him." 

Steve nods and asks, "He's part of the Justice League?"

"Yes," says Diana, a small smile crossing her lips. 

"He's your favorite," says Steve, with an uncanny ability to read her that she finds both shocking and thrilling, because she's learned to be a lot more guarded in the last century, and most people never do seem to figure her out.

"I do not think I am supposed to play favorites," Diana muses. "But yes. And not just because he brought you back to me, although that does strengthen his case significantly." 

"Yeah, he's definitely my favorite coworker of yours." 

Diana pokes him, and he yelps. 

"Okay, then tell me more about him. He's got to be special if you're making a transatlantic flight just for a conversation." 

Diana pauses, trying to think of the best way to describe Barry.

"He is a very sweet boy with a kind heart who has been through a lot. He is creative and smart and funny, and he keeps trying to do good, no matter what, even when he is a bit lost." 

Steve reaches out and smoothes back a piece of her hair, and it sends a shiver down her spine. 

"The world needs people like that. I see why you love him." 

"You know," Diana says very softly. "He calls me supermom, sometimes." 

It feels like she's admitting some sort of secret, and maybe, in a way, she is. She deeply enjoys being called supermom, likes being a mentor and giving advice and yeah, sometimes acting a bit maternal. It's a job title she didn't sign up for, but fell into so naturally that it seems like it was just waiting for her, and she loves it. 

"That sounds like you," says Steve. "I literally can't think of anyone who could possibly be more suited to the role of supermom."

Diana laughs. "Steve, you know all of three people!"

"I could go anywhere in the universe at any time and it'd still be true, Diana." 

"You are incorrigible, but it is late and you are handsome, so I will let it go."

"Who's the flatterer now?" 

He kisses her again, and it's a delicious feeling that makes her toes curl, even in its sleepy simplicity.

"We will visit together, soon," Diana promises sometime later, on the verge of falling asleep. "You will like his sense of humor." 

"Okay," murmurs Steve. "Love you." 

"Love you too." 

***

Diana gets home a little after eight o'clock, which is slightly later than she'd been planning, but the quick conversation with Barry turned into a morning outing when, after promising to wait for the next JL meeting to tell Bruce about Steve, he asks if she wants to go to brunch. Diana has nothing against brunch, so she agrees, and it quickly becomes apparent that Barry is extremely relieved. She feels a little bad that she's been so preoccupied that she hasn't reached out. 

Barry brushes it off, but spends the morning chatting away and eagerly filling her in on the developments in his job, and Master's program, and the funny thing his one friend said the other day that he thinks Diana would appreciate. He also has a bunch of questions about Steve, and Diana knows there's a silly grin on her face as she answers each one, but she's spent long enough muting her heart. 

When she opens the door to their apartment, she's honestly not quite sure what she'll find. But it's just a grinning Steve, sauteing something over the stove. There are a few dishes in the sink, but the kitchen isn't a disaster the way it was the last time Steve tried to cook. 

"I think I've mastered the stove's dials," Steve says, and then pauses whatever he's doing to greet her with a kiss. 

"It smells wonderful." 

Steve hums. "It's the pasta puttanesca recipe from your analog cookbook and some vegetables. I'm working up to a multi-appliance meal." 

The meal is excellent—Steve is already a better cook than she has any desire to be—and they spend most of it chatting about her day with Barry and their plans to visit the United States.

"I'd like to go back to America, just to visit my hometown. Maybe it's stupid, but—"

"That's not stupid at all, Steve."

"I'd like to visit my parents' graves. I know that there's nothing left of them, but it feels…necessary."

Diana nods. "We should have papers for you by the end of the week. I have a series of shipments due next Wednesday, but maybe we can book for the week after next?" 

"Yeah, that would be good." 

The conversation stalls out, and Diana is about to get up and clear the table when Steve jumps up. 

"I almost forgot! Close your eyes."

She humors him. There's shuffling and cabinetry noises from the kitchen, and then his footsteps return. 

"Okay." 

In front of them are two bowls of ice cream. 

She feels her face splitting in a grin at his thoughtfulness, the fact that he remembered. "You got me ice cream!" 

Steve just smiles, like he's biting back a secret, or a private joke. 

She realizes her mistake after the first bite. "Steve, you _ made _me ice cream!" 

"Me and the ice cream machine came to an understanding," says Steve. "I told it that I wasn't using it for me, and it let me hit a few buttons without malfunctioning. After lengthy consultation with the manual, anyways." 

She's overwhelmed. Touched. Grateful, once again, that he's here with her now. She does her best to swallow back the sudden tears, hide how overcome she is by this simple gesture, before she catches herself, remembers that this is Steve and she can be honest.

Thickly, she says, "You should be _ very _proud," and it startles a half-laugh out of Steve. 

"Buttons and dials all in one day," says Steve, nodding. "I always was above average." 

The joy is uncontainable, bursting out of her chest, and she laughs, laughs so hard she cries again too, and she kisses him and eats her ice cream and leans into his warmth. This, she thinks—the little ups and downs and small joys and secret touches and little gestures and full laughter—this is what life is supposed to be. 

* * *

The modern world, Diana has found, eshews the routine, calls it dull and boring. It is something to be shucked, a prison to be freed from, a pattern you're stuck in. If something happens the same way, day in and day out, it is tedious. Less than. 

In the past, Diana may have once been swayed by these arguments. (Discipline is one thing, monotony is another.)

Now, in the mundane simplicity of routine, Diana finds the divine. 

Every day at 6 a.m., Diana wakes up. Does her stretching and training and sometimes yoga too, prepares herself for work at 9. Spends the day with artifacts, or paperwork, depending on where they are in the curating process for each item and exhibit. Then she goes home for the evening. The cycle repeats. If that was all there was to her existence, it might be boring, certainly wouldn't be divine. 

Except, that's not quite how it goes. Instead:

Every day at 6 a.m., the alarm next to hers goes off, and the man beside her gives her a sleepy kiss before going for a run. She gets up, starts the coffee maker—enough for two—and goes about her morning activities. Each day, now, there is someone with whom to swap sections of the newspaper over breakfast. Every afternoon, after a day of cataloging or restoration or email wars with the British Museum, she takes long, meandering strolls along the Seine with him, before they return to their apartment. They eat, they read, they fall into bed. 

On weekends, instead of flying to the United States or going into work, she sits in quaint Parisian cafés with her love. They only ever order a croissant and espresso, because Steve has made a game out of scoring the quality of each, and he is determined to find the best in the city. So they break bits of fluffy pastry off for each other, and roll espresso around their tongues. They laugh. From here, the routine deviates in predictable ways: Sometimes they find a museum or a garden. Sometimes they return home and worship at the altar of each other's bodies. 

There is something divine about the routine they have, because it is _ theirs. _ It is theirs, and it is a living, breathing entity that can be grown and built on over time, expanded as their relationship evolves. This is, after all, the sort of luxury people have when they don't have a war to fight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thanks for reading! as with any fic, kudos and comments always appreciated! 
> 
> you can also come yell with me about wondertrev on tumblr (@melodious-madrigals)

**Author's Note:**

> lol, hope you enjoyed. i've got lots of these little sort-of one shots in this universe. hopefully i'll get a Diana POV up in here soonish. 
> 
> as always, if you enjoyed, i'd never say no to a kudo or comment :)


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